Never Is A Promise
by Goddess of Scandinavia
Summary: And you can't afford to lie. [Imprint story with a twist. Contains OCs and British spelling.]
1. flourishing

Typical Twilight imprint story with a twist. Rated M because young people have filthy mouths and habits. No happy endings here, please escort yourself off the premises if you want one.

* * *

Something like a ghost, she passes by unnoticed and undetected by everyone, except for him. He cannot take his eyes off of her, and by God, why would he ever want to? Every movement of her body is fluid, like something choreographed by a hardened Russian ballerina or by some ancient ancestor of mankind who danced beneath the stars for rain and the harvest. There is something old about the way she continually strokes her thumb against the lighter in her hands, and something rough about the way her cigarettes clumsily fall to the ground by her bare feet, whose dirty soles provided a fascinating contrast with her pink skin. As the aforementioned cigarettes fall to the ground, she curses softly and retrieves another one from her coat pocket with her long and slender fingers-pianist fingers, as she would later tell him, though she has never played in her life.

He is in Port Angeles, and for the life of him, he doesn't remember why. All that matters is her. Here. Before him. It's as if she was waiting for him here, all his life. Or hers, she looks young with that round face.

And that's when he realises that he needs to talk to her, somehow, get her attention, cry out, something for fuck's sake!

But she slips away before he can call out to her-pretend to be a lost tourist and then offer to light her cigarette for her.

He leaves whatever he is doing, and whoever he is here for and weaves in among the crowd, attempting to keep her wispy, golden red hair in sight, less he lose her forever. He follows her spectre through mobs of people and dark shortcuts through alleyways until he reaches a run down building with street art plastered on the white brick walls...Where is he? Who cares, all he knows is that she is inside, and that is where he must follow-

There are looks of bewilderment thrown at him, a tall, dark, muscular man in contrast with sick, love obsessed artists who appear to be starving themselves for the sake of irony; all at once, he is afraid that this was the typical crowd she hung out with, and he hoped to whatever God was listening that she was merely here to pick up someone...her brother, maybe, he could handle that.

Before he knows what is happening, he finds himself walking through a door that was much too white for a dirty place like this, and he sees her, disrobing herself in front of a circle of sketchers and he grows angry that they dare place their gaze upon _his _imprint. He feels his jealously rising dangerously, but he is soon distracted by the sight of her calmly, unmodestly strutting towards the center as if it were her birthright to be there; she strikes a pose reminiscent of a Greek goddess, and sits perfectly still as the sketchers around her begin to rapidly draw out her form. This unfamiliar scene seemed alien to him, almost like a foreign ritual. But then he makes eye contact with her and all is right. He has seen into his future, and it is beautiful.

-

"You're in love with me, aren't you?" she tells him this bluntly, without a moment's hesitation, through a thick French accent; there's something ugly and bitter about the way she says _'in love'_, but he ignores it. In fact, he finds himself quite speechless, despite having so many things to say to her. Despite having so many things he wants to do with and to her. Embrace her. Kiss her. Have her. Grow old with her.

He has stayed for the entire drawing session, watching with fascination at the talented artists draw out her naked form, and at the same time feeling repulsed that she let other men gaze upon her, and at the same time frustrated that none of them could get her essence down right. What is this? He is not a man of art or poetry or anything related to the subjects. He is physical. Raw. Rough. Like mountains and the sea. He never thought he would see the day in which he would criticise the work of artists.

"Don't answer that, I can see it in your eyes," she smokes a cigarette as she's talking to him, still naked in the room. He could see goosebumps rising on her skin from the chill of the broken A/C in the corner, "Wild boys, you all have the same look about you-" She's so close, he can smell the wine on her breath, and maybe that is where she is getting the confidence to be so vulnerable in a room filled with what he can only assume are strangers.

"What look?" he finally speaks, and while he cursed himself over his choice of first words to her, his tone is amused: he does not take her seriously.

"The look of a boy who thinks he is a man."

That surprised him-because he looked nothing like a boy, not since his first signs of changing, and because he was expecting another answer, "You have a look of lust", "You look like you could eat me", "All you care about is one thing."; these phrases, now _this_ is what he was ready for; he had retaliations to all of these statements, and when he said them, she would be impressed, and he would take her out for coffee, or tea, or beer, or whatever the hell she liked, and then they would fall in love, just like in those trashy novels written by women; except this, this was real.

"But you're not one of them," she turns her hollow gaze to the artists cleaning up, "so maybe..."

Either she never finishes her sentence, or he has blocked out her words after 'maybe', but at the sound of that, his heart swells with hope.

* * *

i've wanted to try my hand at a dumb imprint love story for ages, and i've had many ideas over that time. some stories involved witches, others magical creatures, and one an odd and loyal trio of friends. this one seemed right and short, and will bring across my feelings for these stories; which is to say: most, if not all of them, are terrible and terribly written with drab characters and even worse plots.


	2. elegant

ho hum.

in case you don't know, the title is the song, Never Is A Promise, by Fiona Apple, who is the girl's 'faceclaim'. Just in the expressions, I think. In looks? Ehh. Maybe.

this chapter is mostly dialouge, my bad.

* * *

Sitting down across from her at a sandwich shop he has never heard of, he is only mildly disappointed that she is back to being clothed. She looks different than how she did back in the room full of artists, no longer fairy-like, no longer angelic; more raw, more solid, as if when they were together, she ceased to be as ghostly-like.

He is surprised when she orders a large burger with oily fries and a shake because she seemed to be the type to be vegan, or the type to drink tea unironically and eat homemade quiches. But he isn't complaining, it only makes him love her more.

_"What the fuck are you staring at."_ her voice cuts him, because usually girls in movies would blush and look away when a boy would stare at them lovingly, but she seemed annoyed by his presence.

"Are you going to eat all of that?" his voice carries a smile.

"Don't touch my food." she means business, and it makes him laugh. Oh God, she's perfect, absolutely perfect.

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm perfect." There was that tone again...the same bitter and ugly way she said 'in love' to him back at the white room. _Perfect._

"But you are." he can't help but say it, because he means it, and he's never meant anything more in all of his life.

Because she was made for him.

She scoffs angrily and takes a small handful of fries into her mouth, "You're worse than the artists...You sound like my mother."

That raises a lot of questions, and he is filled to the brim with curiosity about her life.

"Worse? You seemed to be quite comfortable around them," He brushes off her scoff; tries to appear confident.

She rolls her eyes, "I'm used to that environment; humans fascinate me."

"Humans? Aren't you one?"

"Am I?" she looks him in the eye as he is taken aback at the possibility. But no, she does not smell of something evil or supernatural, she smells like a human.

He's laughing at her words, "Of course you are!"

"You seem so sure of yourself; I hate that." she drinks from her shake when her mobile begins to ring. Something old, something French; the type of music he would expect to hear in a 1920's mafia movie. She answers knowing who it is, and begins to speak rapid French; at least, he feels it's fast, though she is probably speaking at a normal pace. Her face remains neutral throughout the conversation, and it's almost like he isn't even there. Who was she talking to? Her boyfriend? He had heard from Paul that French girls were the cheating type, but he mentally shakes his head at the thought; he should think better of her! Have faith.

Finally, she is finished with her conversation, and seems to be just a little more exhausted than before.

"Who was that?" he can't help but be nosy.

"My sister." she says with such a bitter tone, that he wishes he never asked.

"Oh." Shit. Damn. Fuck. Well either she hates her sister, or she hates him for wanting to know about her. Gotta change the subject, gotta change the subject, gotta change the subject,

"Where are you from?"

"Paris." the bitter and ugly tone returns, as if the city itself had scorned her.

More surprises; though she was definitely from either Canada or France, he didn't think Paris; not that he knew any other cities in France besides Paris. She didn't seem the type to be a Parisian, no designer clothing, no shoes, a big warm overcoat with fur trimming that went down to her knees, and tousled, light red hair.

"And your parents?"

She inhaled sharply, shit, that's a touchy subject too, and he was about to apologise and drop it, but she replied, "My mother is from Paris as well, and my father is from Marseilles."

"Are you staying here permanently-"

"Why are you interrogating me?" she interrupts him, looking into his eyes again, and he feels as if he is about to fall apart.

"You said it yourself, I'm in love with you." he means it to be teasing, but rest assured, he feels it. He knows he does.

"Now you sound like my sister," she shakes her head, seemingly disappointed in him, and he is not sure what to say to that.


	3. correct

yet enother chapter where we learn absolutely nothing about her

huehuehuehuehueh

* * *

He tells her he wants to see her again, and when she says no, he looks dejected and asks why.

_"Because you haven't even asked me my name."_

He looks surprised, and he mentally kicks himself for forgetting such an important question, as well as forgetting to introduce himself. He was just so caught up with actually finding her, especially since she mentioned she was only visiting the states. 'Not for long' he thought, mentally smiling.

Offering her his hand, he states his name, "Jacob."

She makes a face, either at his name or his outstretched hand, he doesn't know, and shakes his hand, "Masa."

Masa.

He wonders if she's telling the truth, but he doesn't know her well enough to tell. Instead he smiles and asks her where they can meet tomorrow.

He steps up to the porch of an inconspicuous house with herbs and food growing in the front yard and wonders if he has the right address.

Yesterday, after the oh-so-marvelous day he spent with _Masa_, he headed home in a daze: mind filled with thoughts of their inevitable future together. When he arrived, Embry and Quil were angry at his sudden abandonment, for without Jacob's keys, they had no easy means of returning home, but Sam stopped them in the middle of their anger, because once he saw the look on Jacob's face, he understood what was happening. People congratulated him and patted him roughly on the back and asked all sorts of questions like "Is she pretty?" "How did it feel?" and "When's the wedding?" And he hated how intrusive they were, but he loved loved loved receiving the questions, knowing that he would soon introduce her to them and into his life, and inevitably live happily ever after.

But first, he has to knock.

He is in a particular rural part of Washington, in a place that is not quite a town, but almost a town. Almost, Washington, maybe. The house reminds him of the artistic district he found yesterday with it's white coat of paint chipping off, and the curtained windows that made him think about horror movies taking place out in the woods-did she live here? She didn't say, just that she would be here. Jacob eyes the bicycles scattered and parked in the front yard of the house, then at the old blue van parked behind him; did she have company? Did everyone share the rent? Or is this another strange art community get together? Wondering if everyone would sit around and speak French whilst ignoring him, he reaches up to knock on the door, firmly, but not in a threatening way. A young woman, perhaps around twenty-three, with dark olive skin answers, speaking with an accent he doesn't recognise,

"Oh," she seems to be shy, "You're, ah...Masa's friend?" she leans on the door, and he nods, not quite knowing how to answer her in speech, "Ah, yes yes...come in," she steps aside for him and turns her head back to alert somebody of his arrival in a language he believes to be Spanish, or maybe Italian.

The house is covered in an aura of comfort, almost as if it was a bed and breakfast; it helps that somebody in the kitchen seemed to be cooking something awfully delicious, and Jacob hopes that these people liked to share with strangers. On the inside, the paint is only a shade darker, and bluer than the outside, and it is still chipping; all of the furniture seems to have been carved from Shakers themselves, and there are books littered around where ever he turns. The olive-skinned woman shuts the door without locking it and guides him into the living room to present him to the others, "This is...ah, Jacob? Yes?" she turns to him for confirmation, and he nods again, "Jacob, yes, Masa said he was coming."

The people in the living room greet him in a variety of ways, from a simple nod of the head, to meek 'hellos' to formal handshakes-Jacob feels odd greeting all of them, because they're all so...friendly; especially compared to Masa, who, by the by, he did not see in the room-was she the one cooking in the kitchen? He hopes so, that means she can cook, and that is just another plus on his list. Unfortunately, a woman with dark, dark red hair tied in a side braid walks out of the kitchen with a frying pan in hand, a curious look on her face,

"This is Jacob," a guy slouching on the couch tells her, pointing to him.

The woman opens her mouth in understanding and nods, "Masa's upstairs with Marc...they're having a serious discussion, I wouldn't bother them. She'll be down soon, don't you worry." Jacob nods (again), and notices that the woman is cooking something with mushrooms. He hopes to God these people aren't vegans. But he places that thought in the back burner in his mind in favour of mulling over this 'Marc' person...Who the fuck was he, anyways? Serious discussion? Should he be worried? He tries to tune up his hearing to see if he could hear anything upstairs (he assumes they are in the attic because this looked to be a one-story house from the outside), but he is distracted by the sudden sound of steps descending from upstairs, and then the sight of Masa walking around a corner with a man with a beard and several piercings. Both look as if they've tasted something sour, and his nagging curiosity demands to know what they were talking about. Masa acknowledges him with a quiet grunt and sits herself on a small, velvet purple armchair across the coffee table from him. Unlike her, Marc greets him with firm politeness, and explains to him that this is his home. Jacobs has never felt more welcome in his life, and yet he cannot help but feel jealous and angry towards his stranger. He restrains himself, however, and makes himself at home at his insistence, sitting down next to the slouching man on the couch.

"You want a beer?" a tattooed woman with short hair asks him, and he refuses, telling them he is too young to drink.

"No fucking way," the slouched man says, astonished, "You have to be at least twenty-three,"

Jacob feels his ego growing as others chirp in agreement, attempting to guess his age.

The tattooed woman laughs, in good spirit, "Masa, where'd you find this kid, he's practically a baby."

Masa shrugs, preferring to focus on her fingernails, "He followed me home."

After four hours sitting in this house, he is no closer to Masa than he was, but he is quite close with her friends. They like him, and he decides that that can't hurt one bit, especially since they are growing on him too. He likes this little community of hers, it reminds him of the bonds he has with his own pack and family, despite how distant Masa herself seemed from the rest of her friends.

A short, hispanic, native american looking woman with glasses (he forgot her name) is giving them all a lecture on why time travel is impossible when a phone in the next room rings, and the red-haired woman who was cooking earlier (Ava) stands up from her spot on the floor to answer it. When she comes back, she gestures to Masa, who was busy listening to her friend's lecture. Jacob watches them discreetly as the woman mouths something to his imprint that makes her tense up. Masa gets up without excusing herself and goes to, he assumes, answer whoever was calling. When she leaves the room, the lecture stops, and everyone peeks or turns to the entryway to the front of the house for a second.

"Ten bucks says it's Rose-"

"Shut the fuck up, Steven, Rose would have called her cell phone, it's probably her mom."

"Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all, her mom wouldn't call ahead of time, she'd just show up!"

"All the way from Paris? Please."

"You obviously haven't met her mommy dearest, then-"

"Oh and _you_ have?"

"Why don't we just ask Ava...?" the woman previously lecturing on time travel suggests meekly as the olive-skinned woman who had greeted him at the door (Maria) laughs.

The two arguing turn towards Ava, who was busy sipping from her mug of hot chocolate, and Jacob turns to her too, confused and curious, "He was a man with a beautiful voice, and even more beautiful manners,"

"Daddykins it is, then," the tattooed woman (was it Daisy?) says, taking another swig of her beer. The people nod and 'ahh' in understanding and realisation, but Jacob merely squints in confusion.

Marc laughs, he was sitting beside him, and pats him on the back, "You're looking a little bemused there, Jake-haven't met the parents yet?" there is a teasing tone in his voice, and Jacob doesn't know how to feel about that.

"She, ah, told me a little about them-seems not to like them much,"

He is met with a chorus of amused chortles and giggling, "You don't know the half of it," the previously slouched guy (Anthony) tells him, "She pretty much hates them for bringing her and her sister into the world."

That thought does not click as something to laugh at in Jacob's mind, but he lets them continue explaining.

"Don't get us wrong," Marc says, talking with his hands, "Masa's not about being suicidal or anything; she just dislikes how irresponsible her parents were...and are-as if they would live forever."

"-Which they totally will," Daisy cuts in, nodding.

That set off alarms in Jacob's mind, but he laughs it off, "You're not serious, are you?"

"_God yes_," she replies, "Have you seen them? They both look so damn young, it's ridiculous-not to mention inhumanly gorgeous."

Maria sighs wistfully, "Their entire family is beautiful-what a gene pool."

Marc waves them all off, "Don't listen to them Jake, they just have the hots for Masa's dad."

"Shut the hell up, Marc, you'd fuck him if you had the chance, admit it-" Anthony says, smoking something that Jacob swears is weed. Marc flips him off but doesn't deny nor confirm the other's accusation.

"The worst part is that they look natural, y'know?" Daisy says leaning on her right arm, "Either they had her and her sister when they were freaking young, or they're vampires."

Her words set him on edge.

"Ugh, don't fucking talk to me about vampires, Daisy," the time-lecturer groans, "We'll be here all night-"

"Besides, if they were vampires, it'd mean Masa would have to be one too, and then she wouldn't be able to eat human food." Steven reasons as Ava hums in agreement, "And she wouldn't have all those freckles either."

"She gets those from genetics, smart one," the woman who was previously arguing with Steven (Lena) chimes in, "One blond, one brunette, equals a red headed baby. People with red hair have freckles. Besides, it depends what type of vampire you're talking about,"

"Oh God," Marc groans, rubbing his eyes, "Here we go,"

Jacob wishes he could be interested in the topic but all too easily he is consumed with the sudden fear that maybe, Masa's parents _are_ bloodsuckers, and that maybe once she gets to be of certain age, she would get turned too.

Just the thought made him burn with anger.

Luckily, Masa walks back not too soon after the topic of vampire types was started. Oddly enough, they have strayed away from the original topic and are now discussing what musical to put on for the the end of summer.

"Yo Masa," Daisy inquires as said woman sits herself next to Ava, "You wanna play Roxie?"

"I can't sing." she states as if this was obvious.

"I can coach you," Ava offers, smiling, "You'd be the perfect Roxie, come on."

Masa scoffs, "What, because of my hair?"

"Hold up, hold up, I think she'd be a good Velma." Maria interjects, but Steve shakes his head, "Nonono, that won't work, not that I'm doubting your ability, Masa," Masa grunts in response, showing her indifference, "But...imagine Rose as Velma."

The room erupts in a chorus of 'oooh's and Masa rolls her eyes. Jacob smiles.

"You think she'd do it, Masa?" Marc asks

"She'd do everything she could to steal the show, so yes." Masa states simply, looking at a fork as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. The others grin, and Marc continues, "So then it's settled; we'll do Chicago and you two will star in it."

_"I can't sing."_ Masa repeats, _"If I was meant to sing, I would be singing."_

"It's because you smoke," Anthony lectures, and then laughs at his own joke.

"It's because you have an untrained voice," Ava corrects, shaking her head at the other, "Don't worry you'll be fabulous."

Masa sighs, looking up at the ceiling and Jacobs wonders what she is thinking about.


End file.
